Fission, Attrition, Ignition
by possessed by the anime
Summary: Out in the cold, unforgiving Northern snow, Corporal Roy Mustang receives a visit from the last person he expected. Pre- to post-movie, Royai, EdWin, parental!RoyEd
1. Fission

(Gah, I promised myself I wouldn't start posting this until it was done... But I'll finish it! In a timely manner! I promise...!)

* * *

**-Fission-**

He couldn't take it any more.

That was the only explanation the Flame Alchemist had offered anyone for his sudden and unexpected self-imposed exile; the only reason he had been able to come up with. He'd be damned if he gave out any more details-- they'd all think he was crazy. And how could they not, when the very idea of what he was going through frightened even him?

Roy Mustang knew he wasn't crazy. He was not going insane. He was not losing his mind. He was just... under a lot of pressure. Yeah. That's right. The constant stress from the past few months had finally started to get to him-- that had to be it.

Still, he knew he could not simply take a short vacation and expect himself to come right back to work as if nothing had happened. Stopping... whatever was happening to him would not be easy, he knew, especially on his own, but he adamantly refused to go to any sort of shrink. He was not crazy, he was _not_.

And if he couldn't stop it... if he couldn't prevent himself from seeing things wherever he went... if he would always have horrible, disorienting moments when he forgot which of his loved ones were dead, which ones were not, and which ones he knew nothing about... if he could never look his subordinates in the eye again without nearly bursting into tears... If Roy Mustang couldn't fix himself, then he knew it would be a long while before he could even begin to function as he always had; before he even thought of going back to work.

So really, what could he have done? Whether he could heal himself or not, he couldn't be around his friends any longer without telling them anything-- and he certainly did not want them thinking what he knew they would. He had to get away. He had to get far away for a long time.

And although he'd known all along that he was making the best choice, he could not manage to convince himself that the look on Riza Hawkeye's face would not haunt him until he came back. Perhaps it was regret, he thought much later, that made him choose such a frozen, unpleasant place for his recovery.

Outside his window, the blizzard raged on.

* * *

(A/N: Short, I know. The other chapters will be much more reasonable.)


	2. Attrition: Day 0: Arrival

(here it is rather early, since Fission was so short and got such lovely reviews)

* * *

**-Attrition: Day 0: Arrival-**

Well, he'd certainly done a good job of keeping people away; she had to give him that. Who else but the most determined and slightly insane would want to drop by and visit in this icy hell?

The young woman deftly tucked a lock of blond hair back into her hood, only to have it blown right out again by the unforgiving wind. Her frown deepened as she trudged onward, dragging her inadequately booted feet through knee-deep snow.

The man back at the station had stared in open disbelief when she had asked for directions; he had probably assumed she'd missed her stop, gotten on the wrong train, or was otherwise confused. It had taken her quite a while to convince him that _no_, she was not lost; _yes_, she wanted to visit someone up here; yes, she knew the man; no, he had not been expecting her. And yes, she would be staying for a week. _And no, soldier, I would _not_ like to 'go out sometime.' Just do your damn JOB_ _and give me my directions. Thank you._

She judged it had been at least fifteen minutes since she'd left the station, and she was already beginning to think longingly of the coach she had turned down. However, she did not regret her choice; even now as the wind blew large snow flurries into her already stinging pale face, she knew that she could not have accepted it. Once she reached her destination, she could not allow her immediate return to be a simple matter to arrange-- part of the reason she'd chosen this particular time of year.

Perhaps the station help had thought she was like all the other pretty blond girls who had grown up in warmer climates-- gentle, somewhat frail, and easily lost or frightened. She was nothing of the sort; perhaps if he'd seen her in her own element, easily carrying two or three times what many males her size could lift... perhaps then, he would not have looked so clearly shocked at the way she had matter-of-factly slung her large suitcase over her shoulder and paraded determinedly alone into the harsh January wind.

She had to stop for a moment to collect herself as a particularly strong gust slammed into her, almost pushing her back. Almost. But she was strong. Stronger, in fact, than most people gave her credit for.

She knew that was the reason for which the man she was going to visit had never quite looked her in the eye after she'd found out. She had a fair idea of what kind of person he was-- really, he was just like _them_, always trying to protect everyone around him, even at his own expense. Thanks, but no thanks, she had thought, even then. She was a big girl and knew how to handle reality, however harsh and cruel it may be.

The powerful gust had only lessened slightly, but nevertheless she trudged on, shoulders hunched and blond head down against the wind, marching ever onward toward the small cabin she knew would be just a few more minutes ahead. She had a mission to complete, and she'd be damned if a little cold weather would hinder the performance of it.

If Roy Mustang had thought he could run away from it all out here in the middle of hell, he had another thing coming.

* * *

"You're telling me I've got a _visitor?_" he asked incredulously, making sure that his voice sounded sharp even over the phone. "Who would visit me at this time of year?"

"I-I don't know, sir," the station help stammered.

Mustang sighed; the man seemed to have forgotten, once again, that he was the superior officer, and Mustang should be the one taking orders. Unfortunately, the latter had become so used to power over the past few years that dishing out commands seemed like second nature, while the man on the other line was clearly unused to outranking anyone.

"Can you at least describe this person?" Mustang asked, trying very hard to make his voice polite.

"Um... it was a woman..." the station officer told him quietly, as if ashamed. "She didn't give her name, but she said you knew her... she was blond, and she was really pretty, but also kind of scary..."

_Oh no..._

Mustang's heart had jumped to his throat. God, what if it was Hawkeye? He knew he couldn't handle that. He kept a picture of his former staff in his wallet, one that he used now and then to practice looking at the faces of all his comrades: he had gotten to the point where he could look at almost everyone now-- but not Hawkeye. He could even look at Hughes-- hell, he _wanted _to see Maes again-- but not Hawkeye and not Fullmetal. And he certainly wouldn't be able to face either of them in person.

"Did--" he cleared his throat-- "Did she look like a soldier?"

_Please..._

There was a slight pause; it seemed as though the man were trying to picture it. Roy wished he would hurry up. Finally, he continued, "Actually, she did seem a bit like she was used to ordering people around. But she's way too young to be a higher-up--"

Hawkeye had enlisted at the age of eighteen, Roy thought frantically--

"--so maybe she's just bossy. Her hair was pinned up in a banana clip..."

_No, no, please don't let it be her..._

"...And she had these weird side bangs that were actually kind of cute. She was strong, though... nearly gave me a heart attack when she lifted up that huge suitcase. And she had these big _eyes_... sir? Mustang, are you there...?"

_Click._

* * *

Roy sat quietly on one side of the door, trying desperately not to start shaking. He knew he couldn't handle this; knew he wasn't ready to face her. So why was he actually contemplating opening the door to let her in? Maybe, if he just didn't answer the constant pounding of the knocker, maybe she would give up and turn back...

Roy sighed. He didn't want that and he knew it. Not when it was so cold outside... she could handle it and she knew he was aware of the fact, but that didn't stop him from wishing she would never _have_ to handle it. He didn't want her up here, trying to _yet again_ compensate for his uselessness, when she could be getting on with her life back in Central. He wanted her safe, even if she didn't strictly need to be.

And it was that thought more than anything else that made him get up and place a hand on the cold metal knob, steeling himself. He turned the lock--

_You can do this, you have to do this, come on..._

The pounding outside stopped as he slowly turned the knob, only for his heart to take it up, beating so audibly in his chest that he thought it would surely damage something inside him if it got any louder. He began to open the door--

_You can't leave her alone out there, not after she came all this way for YOU..._

--Only to come face-to-face with one of the very last people he'd expected to ever see again. For a long moment, he could only stare in open disbelief as the woman threw down her hood, huffed, "_Finally!_" and marched right into his current place of residence, completely unannounced. She was a lot like that _other_ kid, Roy thought numbly as he closed the door behind her.

Winry Rockbell surveyed him critically. "Nice patch," she offered through chattering teeth. "Riza didn't mention it when she told me where to find you."

"She told you-- wait, what?"

"Actually, I had to weasel the story out of her over a large tankard of country beer. She's a little stressed out about the whole thing, seemed like..." Winry cast an eye around the small room, then offered him a wry grin.

"So, got any spare beds? Or am I going to have to pick a sofa?"

* * *

(A/N: please tell me you were surprised... x.x I tried so hard to do that...)


	3. Attrition: Day 1: Damage Assessment

(I apologize profusely for the delay; no one's more upset about it than I am, believe me...)

* * *

**-Attrition: Day 1: Damage Assessment-**

Roy Mustang awoke that Monday morning with a massive headache. He felt sore and tired all over, and it took a bit longer than usual to convince himself to suck it up. Finally he threw off the covers, then, shivering in the sudden cold-- for he swore even now that he would never get used to it-- dragged himself across the short distance to his clothing-drawer. Why did he feel so stressed out, anyway...?

A soft clinking, followed quickly by a whispered curse, issued suddenly from the tiny kitchen area.

Oh. Now he remembered.

_"So how are you staying, exactly?" Roy asked, eyeing her suitcase with suspicion as he shut the door._

_"I'm moving in for a week," Winry informed him, taking off her coat. She then proceeded to kick off her shoes, shake out her hair, spread snow all over his living space... "It's freezing in this hellhole," she threw over her shoulder as she adjusted her thick woolen socks. "And I bet your kitchen is absolutely bare. How do live up here?"_

_For one of those incredibly few times in his life, Roy Mustang found himself at a complete loss for words. After several moments of watching the young woman make herself at home, in HIS home, he finally opened his mouth-- only to be interrupted immediately as if Winry had known exactly what he'd been planning to say._

_"I've come to knock some sense into you." She looked him over as though sizing him up-- as though trying to see exactly what 'knocking some sense' into him would entail. Roy himself happened to be wondering the same thing; he raised an eyebrow and waited for her to speak._

_"Well," she sighed, putting a hand on her hip, "it's a lot to do in a week, but I think I can manage. Now, where's the bathroom?"_

Roy sighed quietly as he rummaged around in his drawer. Didn't that girl have anything better to do? He really wasn't in the mood for company. After pulling on some clothes, he trudged irritatedly down the stairs-- before stopping to quickly adjust the eyepatch. Mustn't forget that.

Winry was helping herself to his pantry and cooking supplies, and mixing some odd, pale, lumpy substance in a pot. Hearing him enter, she glanced over her shoulder, then returned to work. "I'm making breakfast," she explained. "It's oatmeal."

She must have eyes in the back of her head, for how else would she know what kind of face Roy had just made?

"And I don't particularly _care_ whether you like it or not; it's what we're having. So suck it up and set the table."

Roy did as he was told, thinking that perhaps if he just kept the mask up-- just watched, listened and waited patiently without starting anything-- then maybe she would simply give up and leave on her own. He could always order her out, he supposed... but no matter what anyone else might say, he really didn't have it in him to throw a young, defenseless girl back out into the cold. And didn't he owe her enough?

Hadn't he already hurt Winry Rockbell enough...?

"Food's done!" the blunt statement cut short his darkening thoughts as a large bowl suddenly clunked down on the table before him. It looked just like the mush he remembered.

Winry sat down opposite him with her own bowl-- a bit bigger than his, he noted wryly-- and began to dig in. Roy watched her eat, keeping his hands folded on the table as she shoveled in the light brown slop in a way that could only be described as inhaling with dignity. It was a wonder she managed to keep herself looking so slender.

"Your stove sucks, by the way," she commented in between bites.

"The last time I used it, it was working fine."

Winry rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Of course it works," she told him, "but it's a piece of crap. It's only got one little burner, you can't adjust the temperature, you don't even know whether it's going to suddenly turn off on you... and I bet it costs a fortune just to keep it running. I could make one that's ten times as efficient for about half the price, and it could run on less than a third of the fuel that this one uses."

"Maybe you should tell that to one of the officials in charge of military housing," Roy suggested, raising an eyebrow.

Winry thought for a moment, then shook her head and went back to her food. "Nah, they wouldn't listen. It's not like they give a damn who's comfortable as long as they get paid."

"They've gotten better, actually. I remember thinking they were the most bitter old pigs I had ever met when I first enlisted... But when I went back to the dorms recently, I was surprised at how much everything had changed." He paused for a second, looking her over. "Who told you that, anyway? It's not exactly common knowledge."

"Ed used to complain about it in his letters," she said shortly, not looking up from her oatmeal, and a long, pregnant silence followed her comment. Neither seemed ready to broach the subject of Edward Elric so soon, especially in present company.

They sat awkwardly for what seemed like hours, the only sound in the room coming from Winry's clinking spoon. Finally, she looked up. "You're not eating," she realized.

"I don't like oatmeal."

Silence again.

"Why?"

"It looks like pig slop."

"Well, it _tastes_ good, and it's good for you." She took another bite, as if to demostrate. "And it does not look like pig slop!"

"Vomit, then. And it tastes like paper."

Winry let out a disbelieving bark of laughter. "I can't believe you city people. I've seen the stuff you guys call oatmeal-- it looks like what you get when you leave milk out for a week, and I wouldn't be surprised if it did taste like paper, since it's mostly water. Same with city-potatoes, and city-rice..."

"Hey! I'll have you know that large cities offer quite a bit of variety--"

"Yeah, garbage has variety too--"

"I'm telling you, there's something wrong with the idea of oatmeal--"

"And I'm telling _you_, this happens to be delicious!"

Roy glared at her from across the table, and she held his angry gaze. Then he lifted his spoon up and vehemently stabbed the contents of his bowl. "I'll prove it, then," he told her. He lifted the spoon up to his mouth and took one tiny bite as she watched him. He chewed and swallowed, his glare deepening all the while.

It _was_ delicious.

Winry smirked, raising an eyebrow and resting her chin on one hand in an unmistakable position of victory.

"Disgusting," the former Colonel scoffed at the girl, who now smiled even more widely before him, and took a larger bite.

* * *

The rest of the day passed without much incident; Winry kept mostly to herself, writing little notes on a pad she'd brought and occasionally tinkering around with a palm-sized piece of machinery that she had yet to identify aloud. Roy, for his part, did not interfere with her work, and although her presence made him highly uncomfortable, he learned to ignore it and could not help feeling grateful for the contact with someone who had recently been amidst civilization.

Over a lunch of hot tomato soup-- which Roy accused repeatedly of looking like organs, saying that he didn't like tomatoes either, but Winry insisted was the best tomato-based food he'd ever have in his life, to which he protested angrily, to which she dared him to just try it, and he did, and she was right, but he'd be damned if he ever told her so-- Winry gave him some of the more recent news from Central.

Oh, not the usual news; not the latest attractions in movie theaters, or the latest fashions in the city, or the latest government ruling... no, Roy already received copies of the best Central newspapers, albeit they arrived a bit late. He already knew all that. What Winry told him was what he really interested in: Riza Hawkeye seemed to be getting more than a few date offers in his absence, though she turned them all down flat; Jean Havoc's love life was not going well, and he'd been complaining loudly to Scieszka about it; Lieutenant Breda had gotten rather embarrassed after he'd screamed like a little girl when Black Hayate had gotten loose at Headquaters; Falman had recently gotten a promotion and Fuery might get one soon; Elysia Hughes needed glasses.

"The funny thing is, no one would have known if Scieszka hadn't been trying to teach her how to read every time she babysits. Mrs. Hughes was going to wait until Elysia went to school to learn, but Scieszka insisted, and they found out she could hardly see the text," Winry sighed. "But she doesn't like to wear them-- says they give her a headache. We don't know if they gave her the wrong perscription, or maybe she's just not used to them. I'm worried..." Winry trailed off, picking at her food. "I mean, she's a smart girl, but she won't get very far if she refuses to even see properly."

"Hm." Roy honestly didn't know what to tell her; his only experiences with children consisted mainly of yelling at a particularly obnoxious and prideful teenager. Ed usually required force and a little manipulation to make him behave, and as Roy really didn't know how to be nice, that had been just fine. Elysia, however, was much younger, and more innocent, and in any case, disciplining her was not his job. Especially not with Colonel Mustang-style discipline.

"Well, let's just hope she isn't as bad as her father yet," he said as he finished off his soup.

"Why not?"

"Because I tried on his glasses once, when we were kids," Roy told her darkly, "and my first reaction was, 'Oh my god, this poor boy is _blind!_'"

Winry laughed at the image, but sobered up after a bit. She looked him over for a moment, then finally brought herself to say quietly, "You... must have known him for a while, huh?"

Roy paused, not sure how to answer. He and Maes had first met over twenty years ago, as very young children, and had been good friends, but from the time Maes left for training to the day Roy enlisted, the two had barely spoken. Of course, after Roy came back from Ishbal and Maes helped him recover, and until Maes' dying day they had become nearly inseperable, almost like Edward and Alphonse...

"Like a brother," he answered at last, and his tone had a certain air of finality to it that not even Winry wanted to defy.

* * *

"I'm starting to wonder if this is going to become routine," Roy commented over dinner.

Winry looked up from her pasta. "Hm?"

"This," he gestured to the meal, which he had deemed a one out of five, while privately wishing he could have it again soon. "You. Cooking for me. Is it something I should get used to?"

To that Winry only scoffed, "Of course not. Tomorrow, it's _your_ turn."

Roy stared at her blankly, then glanced over at the next room, which held his desk and several piles of paperwork. "You may not have noticed, but I'm actually supposed to be doing a job up here. I don't have time to make breakfast, lunch and dinner for two people every other day."

"Oh, but you have time to sit down to those meals whenever I call you, then do the dishes when we're done?" She raised an eyebrow. "You can make up for it by working extra-hard when I cook." She tapped a bit of pepper onto her plate, carefully mixing it in with the sauce before spearing it on the end of her fork. "And in case _you_ didn't notice, I'm not exactly on vacation, either."

"What, when you were messing around with that... that machine thing? What was that, anyway?"

"Just a little piece of something that I told Scieszka I'd fix. It'd be faster if I could do it at home, but as I've got a job to do up here..." She shrugged, sighing in a way that said _oh well, I suppose it can't be helped._

Roy smirked. "Right. And that was... 'knocking some sense into me,' correct?"

"Mm-hm."

"And what have you been doing for the past twenty-four hours? Because I don't feel much of a difference."

Now it was Winry's turn to smile. "Damage assessment," she told him frankly. "I've got to see just what's in the job description, don't I?"

"And what's your verdict so far?" he asked, holding his arms out as if ready for an examination.

The girl opposite him, however, simply let out a dark chuckle to herself, keeping her attention on her food. "I'd say I've got my work cut out for me," she muttered, quietly reaching again for the pepper.

* * *

That night, Winry lay awake a bit longer than usual, scratching a few more notes into her pad as she thought over the events of the day before.

Mustang was... not quite what she'd expected. Oh, she hadn't thought Ed's complaints were all true; for example, she doubted very much whether the man would call Edward into his office just to make a snide remark on his height. Actually, he seemed pretty nice-- nicer, in fact, than she'd thought a few months ago when he and his team had been in Resembool. He had avoided her, for the most part, except for one brief encouter in the hallway, from which she had quickly fled. She hadn't been ready to face him yet.

But ready or not, she had to sometime soon. Winry was well aware that the subject of her parents and the events of several months ago would have to broached within the next few days, and preferably sooner rather than later. And clearly, the sleeping man in the next room would not be the one to do it. How ironic, she thought, that the one who truly knew how painful the inevitable conversation could become would have to be the one to force its beginning.

So that was one more thing she would have to talk about eventually. What else...?

Probably the thing-- or rather, the person-- that said conversation would lead to. Truth be told, she was really more afraid of this topic than the others preceeding it, because she honestly had very little idea of where it might go. As painful as it was to admit certain truths even to herself... and as difficult as it would be to say them aloud to the very man who needed to hear them the most... as awful as it was to even think about the look on Ed's face if he ever knew, but knowing she had to anyway... no, it was far worse to be the one asking the questions.

What if it was all for naught? What if she had come up here for something she and many others had assumed, but turned out to be totally wrong? What if...?

_No. Don't think like that. Come on, snap out of it. He must have his reasons-- you just have to wrestle them out._

When Winry had first set out for this post in the middle of nowhere, she had expected to find a broken man. She had expected Roy Mustang to have something clearly wrong with him, to make him abandon everything he'd worked so hard for. She had expected depression, even madness, or at the very least a bit of an antisocial attitude... but he really seemed fine. True, he hadn't exactly been open to conversation on the night of her arrival, and even now, he tended to skirt around her when he thought she wasn't paying attention-- but that was hardly abnormal, given their history.

She slowly let out a long, exhausted sigh. She had come in using force, hoping to shock him into his senses or at least knock him out of some stupor. The fact that she had come to a man who thought rationally, who didn't appear to have any sort of emotional problem, and who was completely in his right mind... well, it scared her, to be perfectly honest. What was there to shock him out of, now...?

Winry shook her head at her own pessimism, putting away her notepad and moving to turn out the lights. There was no point in doubting herself when she was already here; she'd just have to do what she came here to do and hope for the best. From there, she'd probably have to wing it, but with luck, she'd manage. And with those final parting thoughts, she was able to send herself into a somewhat uneasy sleep.

After all, she still had the better part of a week to finish the job.

* * *

(A/N: Well, I feel kinda awkward telling you that this chapter is the REAL beginning of the fic, especially after I promised to have it out in a few days, then made you all wait so long... and after such wonderful feedback, too... the next one really should be out soon, though; I've got the week off and I'm anxious to get to my favorite parts.)


	4. Attrition: Day 2: Broken Bones

(I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry TToTT)

* * *

**-Attrition: Day 2: Broken Bones-**

The room seemed dark and unspeakably empty. The dim light coming in from one or two windows was effectively stifled by the flimsy makeshift curtains and the shadowed forms of medical equipment. The soldier lifted a hand very carefully to his face, dazedly holding the fingers out in front of his eyes, as if trying to make sure he could see all of them. He lay there in silence, allowing himself to revel in his own aliveness for a few minutes, or maybe it was a few hours or a few seconds, he couldn't be sure. All he knew was that when the nurse finally came in and noticed his open eyes, she immediately smiled kindly at him and walked over to the bed, hips swaying a little more than strictly necessary.

Numbly, he envisioned many other girls-- from his past, he assumed-- walking toward him in that same way, smiling invitingly and showing off the thinness of their waists and legs. He remembered, vaguely, how they had winked at him from across the room, and he had responded in kind, and it had seemed like fun at the time... it had all seemed somewhat important... but that was before he realized what he already had... before he let himself fall in love with _her_...

He blinked, the previous night (week? month? how long ago _was_ it?) suddenly coming back to him in a rush. The darkness. The flash; the explosion. Dust, dust, dust everywhere. He couldn't see, but he could feel her breath on his cheek, could feel her shoulders beneath him and her arms around him and her voice in his hair as they both waited for rescue or death, but they had to live, they had to, there were still people waiting for them at home--

The young nurse was becoming worried now, shaking him and offering him another blanket. She must be new, he realized, the older ones all would have known what must be the matter... he took deep breaths, tried to calm down, if only for someone else's sake...

There were other people around the bed now, he realized. He glanced anxiously around at them, looking for one face in particular and beginning to panic when he did not find it. Why didn't he see her? She should have been the first one in the room, watching him like she always did and protecting him in more ways than even she probably knew, because that was just what she did, she looked out for everybody, and she loved him and she should be here and the only reason she wouldn't be is if she's hurt oh no she can't be no no no--

"Identification," they were saying. He couldn't hear them, not exactly, but he could almost read their lips and they just kept on repeating that one word. "Identification." "Identify." "Can you identify..."

_ding..._

He must have said something, for they nodded and motioned for some other person that he couldn't see. He sat up slowly, head pounding, eyes stinging, adrenaline rushing, _let me see..._

_ding..._

The poor young nurse must have been yelling now, so angry and frightened at having a corpse brought into the patients' area. But the soldiers paid her no mind... and he just had to see, had to _know_...

_DING..._

They reached over and peeled back the cover on the face, but he knew before he saw exactly who it would be...

_DINGDINGDINGDINGDING--_

* * *

Roy awoke violently, just barely keeping down the contents of his stomach as he breathed in and out through his nose. It was only a nightmare. Nightmare, nightmare. A bad dream. It wasn't true. He clenched the sheets so hard he swore he could feel his knuckles cracking. Just a dream, he told himself. Just a bad, awful, horrible, terrifying dream. Calm down, Mustang. It was only a nightmare, you've had those before. Relax.

By the time he had gotten his breathing under control, his alarm clock had already stopped. He shakily lifted himself out of bed, feeling tired but in no mood to go back to sleep. He raised a hand to his head, intending to run his fingers through his hair until he accidentally brushed the damaged skin around what had used to be his left eye; a moment of confusion, then mild panic-- what if someone walked in and _saw...?_-- before he fumbled the patch onto his face.

He needed to calm down, he knew. Today could not become one of his nightmare-induced panicky days, during which he constantly glanced over his shoulder, ran his fingers over the photograph in his pocket but never took it out, and sometimes even spoke to the empty wilderness... no. Today could not become one of those days. He had to get himself under control. Especially since Winry...

Roy frowned. Winry. He absolutely could not let her see him like this. He hadn't been expecting to get hit with a panic attack while he had a visitor, but in retrospect it seemed only logical that this particular companion would accidentally drag up that particular dream: after all, she looked very different now...

_Their hair pinned up the same way, both blonde and pale like the guardian angels of legend, the younger one had gotten taller and more womanly, and neither would put up with his bullshit, God she reminded him so much of--_

_Dried blood everywhere, dust all over her face, her entire lower half missing, just gone, and her big beautiful brown eyes just stared up at nothing and her soft lips hardened by rigor mortis and he knew she was gone but oh God he just wanted to hold her and cry he loved her so much--_

_She's alive she's alive she's alive--_

It was a long time before Roy felt ready to leave the bathroom.

* * *

Despite his protests the day before, Roy had set his alarm extra-early to make breakfast for them both. Sure, he might not be able to make oatmeal like Winry could, or anything like she could, really... so he'd just have to make something she wouldn't try. Something she'd probably never heard of. Something from an entirely different culture.

...Which left him furiously beating several eggs in a too-small bowl, watching a pot of sauce slowly burn and trying his damnedest to remember how his sisters used to make okonomiyaki. He cursed quietly as a bit of egg spilled out.

"Smells like something's burning in here," he heard a sleepy voice from the doorway. Young, girlish, groggy with the weakness of slumber; nothing like his beloved Lieutenant, Roy thought with a strange mixture of relief and triumph.

"It's supposed to smell that way," he told the child flippantly. "Just go sit down and wait until it's done."

"Oh..." She seemed to process that for a moment, then ventured to ask, "Roy?"

"Hm?"

He turned to look at her, but soon wished he hadn't. Winry's hair hung loose from its updo, spilling over her shoulders and down her back like one of Elysia's dishevelled blankets; she wore a loose pink nightgown that clung to nothing and only served to de-emphasize her more womanly features; she rubbed at her sleep-encrusted eyes with one pale, half-curled hand. Roy was not unused to this scene: man makes coffee and breakfast for two, woman walks into the room, woman is totally cute and still sleep-ridden, woman looks incredibly sexy.

But Winry didn't look sexy at all; she only looked young. Young and vulnerable.

God _damn_ it, why hadn't he kicked her out? She didn't belong up here. This girl was nearly all alone in the world-- she should be back at home, safe with what family she had left, not up here in this cold, frozen exile with the very man who'd orphaned her in the first place. It was his fault that she had no parents-- hell, it was even his fault she didn't have Ed anymore-- so what was he doing, letting her stay up here when he could barely defend himself, even against his the war in his own head? She had no one to protect her anymore, and he'd caused that, and now he was just--

"Plate's on fire."

"Huh?" He glanced back at the food. "Oh, _shit_...!" He'd left a paper plate of chopped vegetables too close to the cheap gas stove, which had just given another one of its sporadic _p__oofs _of yellow flames, as Winry had so kindly pointed out. Roy let out a low string of profanities to himself, angrily cursing his own incompetence.

"Just go wait for me to finish up," he muttered to the girl now snickering in the doorway, smothering the flames with a wet dishtowel.

* * *

Winry laughed quietly to herself, shaking her head as she stepped gingerly back to her suitcase. He really didn't need to wake up quite so early; although, she supposed, he might have to make allowances for time if he planned on keeping the burner extra-low every time he used it...

Winry blinked. _Wait a minute._ She turned her head, slowly, looking in the direction of the kitchen, then the fireplace. She'd heard him stoking the flames sometimes, both last night and the night before-- she'd heard curses and the clunk of metal on wood, and faintly the _scratch-WOOSH_ sound of striking matches. In her half-asleep daze she had quietly offered him sympathy, remembering with distaste the beginnings of past Resembool winters, and that horrid frustration of not being used to tending the fire in the wee hours of the morning.

But now that she was fully awake and really thought about it, shouldn't she have heard the snapping of fingers instead...?

_Hmm_, she thought to herself as she dressed, making a mental note of it. It would seem that she and the former Flame Alchemist had yet another hard conversation to look foward to.

* * *

"I told myself I'd stay open to whatever you attempted, and trust that I'd be pleasantly surprised..." Winry took a deep breath, staring at her plate, "but I have to ask, what the _hell_ is _that_?"

"That, Miss Rockbell, is called okonomiyaki. Loosely translated as 'what you like, fried.'"

"But what _is_ it?"

"What it _is_ is delicious. Just eat. It's only fair, after you made me eat all that slop yesterday," he reasoned, taking a bite.

Huh. It didn't taste quite as good with the meager ingredients he had up here, and his cooking skill was not exactly top-notch, but still, it wasn't bad... and since Winry didn't seem to have tried any other food from the homeland of Roy's mother, she'd have nothing with which to compare Roy's cooking and would simply have to trust the chef when he said it was superb. Lovely how these things seemed to work out in his favor so often, Roy thought...

Winry looked over it morosely, keeping her gaze firmly on the food. "Only fair, you say."

Roy smirked in the affirmative. "Equivalent Exchange," he murmured, digging in again.

"Bah, alchemists! You think all of life revolves around your craft..." (Look who's talking, Roy thought) "Speaking of which, what happened to yours?"

Roy froze almost comically, fork halfway to his mouth. _What?_

_How did she...? S_urely she did not mean what he thought she did... no, how could she? Roy cleared his throat and put down his fork, deciding to play dumb. "What happened to my what, Winry?" he asked evenly. He was becoming slightly wary of where these mealtime conversations could lead to, but he'd be damned if he showed it.

"Your alchemy," she clarified, looking him right in the eye this time. "What happened to your alchemy?"

Roy could only stare. How the hell did she know about that? Roy hadn't told anyone, not even his closest Lieutenant, and if Hawkeye had picked up on it, she never would have told. Why, then, did this girl, to whom he had only spoken twice before this little visit...

"Maybe I don't feel like using complex science for every little thing I do," he offered, knowing full well that she had him. He couldn't show her a transmutation even if he tried-- well, no, he could, actually, but he wasn't about to risk the after-effects. He'd already suffered through one nightmare this morning, and he absolutely could not risk another in her presence. He would _not_ let her see how far he'd fallen.

Luckily, Winry sighed, shaking her head and apparently deciding not to persue the subject. Roy was not about to give her anything without a fight, and she finally seemed to be realizing that.

Good, then. Maybe now he could begin to convince her to _go home_.

* * *

Lunch and dinner were quiet, uncomfortable affairs. Winry had been shooting him funny looks all damn day, glancing up over her tools and her notepad, sometimes staring for more than a minute at a time as though trying to figure him out.

The glances he could ignore-- he'd grown accostumed to them coming from different parts of the office over the years. The staring, even, he could ignore-- God knew he had received plenty of strange looks all his life, even more after Ishbal, and more than ever after he'd gotten the patch. If it were anyone else, he could get used to it.

What he could not tolerate, however, were Sara Rockbell's eyes looking him over with a blue version of the same petulant glare that he'd somehow grown to both dread and miss unbearably over the last few months.

* * *

This was not good.

Roy was not cracking. He had a problem, clearly-- he couldn't even use his alchemy, for which he'd become so famous. Winry had known before even deciding to come that the man must have been broken at some point; why else would he have come out here, exiling himself from everything he knew and loved? Winry, too, had been hurt by the events of so many months ago, and had hardly begun to accept the idea that so much had been taken from her, and so suddenly... she couldn't even imagine what it must have been like for Roy, who had lost not only Ed and Al, but his own best friend...

So why would he send himself so far away from what little he had left? What was the point...?

And then she had to stifle a gasp. Of course. He was trying to get over it, she realized. He was trying to cut himself off from what little he had left, to stop himself from leaning on anyone... to stop himself from putting anyone else in danger, so he would never have to feel anything like this again. He was running away, closing himself off until he could learn not to care.

As the clock ticked gently in the corner, Wonry found herself recalling several small bits of knowledge she had learned in her short years.

In order to fix a machine that has stopped working, she had learned from her grandmother, you first have to take it apart.

In order to construct something you want with alchemy, Edward had told her, you first have to deconstruct something you have.

Sometimes, her parents had explained years ago, to heal a broken bone properly, you first have to break it again.

Winry shook her head, letting her hair down from its habitual updo. Another lesson for the list, then.

In order to make such a stubborn man listen to reason, you first have to break his resolve.

* * *

(A/N: I meant to have this out weeks ago, honest... instead I got wrapped up in writing some of the later parts, and some other fics I'm working on that are nowhere near done. And then I was having serious issues on what parts to include here versus what I should save for later; I must have gone through fifteen different versions of this part and I'm still not entirely happy with it... yeah. And life got in the way. Sorry.)


	5. Attrition: Day 3: XRay

(A/N: OMFG, this late after I PROMISED... ;.; I'm so sorry. It's just... I hit a huge block that I couldn't figure out, and... and I got sick, and... this is a horrible, _evil_ time of year for me, and... a-and I posted a oneshot last weekend! And this chapter is longer! So you waited longer, but you got more! Q.Q Forgive meeeeee...!)

* * *

**-Attrition: Day 3: X-Ray-**

Roy Mustang was having a bad week.

A _very_ bad week.

He had awoken suddenly in the middle of the night, and again at three in the morning, and again at sunrise. Dreams again. Nightmares. He'd gotten used to them coming every night-- in fact, that was normal-- but rarely three in a row and normally not this bad. He'd given up on more sleep after recovering from the last one, not wanting to risk another. Besides, it might accidentally wake his temporary new house-mate, especially if he got vocal, as he was sure he had done at least a few times.

So instead he had washed his face, taken an early shower, pulled on the patch and some clothes, and begun to proceed toward the kitchen... before he remembered that it was Winry's turn to cook today.

Sighing angrily to himself, he had then returned to his room. Oh, he could have done it anyway, he knew; but he also knew that it would be far easier to just go along with whatever the teenager told him. He really didn't need a confrontation right now. He knew what he could handle and what he couldn't, and he definitely could not handle any more crap from Rockbells or tough women-- or blond teenagers, for that matter-- while he was already trying to deal with his other problems. He'd actually been getting better before Winry had to show up...

He pinched the bridge of his nose in self-irritation, folding his arms and leaning back against the wall behind the bed. It was wrong to blame her, he knew that. The sudden upswing in the frequency of his little nighttime visits was not her fault. She hadn't asked to resemble Lieutenant Hawkeye so much, or anyone else. She hadn't asked to have her mother's eyes or her father's hair or Fullmetal's friendship. She hadn't asked Roy to murder her parents--

_Yes, MURDER, what decent human being would shoot them with their backs turned, but he couldn't look them in the eye as they died and how could he, he was the soldier he should have died not them but he could fix that right now oh yes--_

--She hadn't asked to be there in the room as Roy consciously led an innocent child toward the same evil path he himself had chosen. She hadn't asked him to take the boy into the military's cruel embrace at such a young age, and she certainly hadn't asked for what had happened to the child they both cared for--

S_ixteen, sixteen, just sixteen and already gone, disappeared and taken away from him and everyone else and oh how he loved that poor boy, how he missed the wicked grin and the insults and the cursing and what monster would take him away oh I'm so sorry Edwa--_

Roy hadn't asked for any of that.

* * *

"So, Al's fine," Winry told him offhandedly, taking a sip of water.

Roy paused in stabbing his eggs, but other than that gave no sign that the name had affected him. "Really," he offered, sounding entirely unconcerned.

"Yeah. I mean, about as fine as he could be, anyway," she continued, as if talking about the weather, or perhaps her favorite type of music. Just small talk. "You know, what with Ed gone and everything."

Well, two could play at that game. "It's nice to hear he's doing well; I must admit I was a bit concerned."

"He does have his moments, though."

"I can't imagine what you mean."

Winry glanced briefly over at his hands, smoothly going about the motions of breakfast. Then she smiled and gave a light-hearted sigh. "You know," she sprinkled a bit of salt on her eggs, "nightmares and such."

"Ah."

"Yeah. The last time he came to visit from his teacher's house, he woke up screaming in the middle of the night. He was crying for at least an hour afterward, I think." She said all of this very evenly, as if she didn't personally know the boy she was talking about, or perhaps as if she didn't care.

Roy only responded with, "Poor kid."

"A lot of the time when he wakes up-- or sometimes he does it in his sleep-- he just keeps saying 'Brother, Brother.' Not always, though. Sometimes he won't stop apologizing. Sometimes he says 'I miss you.' Sometimes he just says 'Ed.' Every now and then I think he might be having some kind of hallucination, but I can't be sure."

Roy did not say anything to that, only gave her a mildly concerned look.

"He's pretty good at hiding it, though. Usually Granny doesn't even notice."

"Maybe she's good at hiding it, too."

"No, she always says something or sends him a weird look. He tries to ignore her, but you know Al..."

Roy nodded, remembering. "He's too nice for his own good."

"I think it's a good thing he's so receptive, actually. It's nice that he at least tries to pay attention when someone wants to help him, don't you agree?"

"I suppose." He wasn't going to argue with a teenager who had every right to hate him, especially one with such a sharp knife in her hand. Instead he turned the subject in a different direction. "And does he hide it from you?"

Winry seemed to think for a moment, then shrugged. "He doesn't want me to see him as weak, so he tries."

"But he doesn't succeed," Roy gathered.

"No," she told him smugly, "Never."

"How can you be sure?"

She looked at him for a prolonged, unreadable moment. Then the right corner of her lips quirked up in a tiny smirk, strangely pitying and-- for a brief second there-- incredibly remorseful. Finally, she replied:

"Because I know him better than he knows himself."

Then she went back to her eggs, and that was the end of Wednesday's breakfast conversation.

* * *

When Roy had been a very young child, he and his sister would sometimes sneak up to the roof, just to stare at the heavens. They had lived in a rather sketchy apartment building in Central-- though just how sketchy, they hadn't understood at the time-- so their mother didn't appreciate their sneaking off. Neither did Maes' mother-- and her anger was a terrible thing to behold-- but he would usually join them. In fact, by the time the older two had reached high school, they were inseperable.

But when they sat up on the roof, staring into the distance, saying a word or two only every now and then, it became clear how very far apart they would grow.

You couldn't see too many stars when you looked toward the downtown area. There was too much light coming from the ground, from what they could see and experience and touch, and you could hardly see the little pinpricks overhead, those tiny illuminations hinting at a life beyond the one you knew. If you looked toward the city, you saw only the brilliant glow of the now.

But if you looked out toward the country, you could see more and more stars as your gaze grew more distant. More and more soft sparkles, fragile moments that you might miss unless you looked closely. It was far more beautiful to the eye than the artificial glow of downtown, but far more forbidden; you could reach out and touch and understand the streetlights in East City. You could never grab a star.

Those were the only two places to look, really. If you couldn't pick a light to follow, you had to either sit there trying to choose or wait for something else to find you. But nothing ever comes to those who don't take it for themselves, and that was simple enough to understand, even as young as they were.

So, Roy looked toward the city. The artificial glory. His sister looked toward the country. The unattainable happiness. Maes stared straight up above them, torn between the two choices and knowing that as the oldest, he would have to make one first. He hadn't been able to give up his love for his two little stars at home-- or Roy's shared dream for glory-- and in the end it had killed him.

Roy, however, had made his choice. He'd wanted fame, and he'd gotten it. He'd given up any hopes of a place where he could see the stars, and he hadn't looked up at them since. He had decided: he had chosen to become the person he was. And now he found himself hating that person, more and more with each passing day.

His sister, too, had made her choice. Forget glory. Screw fame. She didn't need the masses, she only needed a few people, but she would hold them far closer to her soul than you ever could with a cheap city light bulb.

She and Roy had not spoken in a very long time.

Now, glancing every now and then out the window, far away from any civilization, the clouds covering the stars, Roy occasionally felt himself wondering what Fullmetal would have chosen. Would he have stared hungrily in at the false glamor that Roy had thought he wanted? Would he have gazed wistfully out at the unknown coutryside, hoping for something that may never come to him or to Roy's sister? Or would he, like Maes, have looked desperately up at space, wondering what the hell he was going to do with the rest of his life...?

"Hey, you alright?" Winry called from the other side of the room. "You look kinda spacey."

...But then Roy would shake his head, knowing that this boy was different. He didn't need stars that he'd heard about or neon signs that he'd seen. He would have looked at the lantern in his hand.

* * *

"I miss him too, you know."

"Hm?" Roy glanced up from his lunch, pretending not to know exactly who she was talking about. "Miss who?"

"Ed," she answered bluntly.

Do not let the mask drop. Do _not_ let anything show. "You weren't at his funeral," he reminded her, keeping his voice even. And it was true. Almost no one but Roy and his team had attended. Not Al-- though that was understandable-- nor Winry, her grandmother, Fullmetal's teacher or any of his other friends... except for two blond brothers from Xenotime, whom Fullmetal had conveniently forgotten to include in his report of the incident.

They had come. Two random acquaintances he'd only met a little while before had come to pay their respects. But not his own little brother or his best friend. His family had not come.

Now Winry stared openly at the word "funeral." She looked at Roy for a long moment, as if trying to see through him like an x-ray. She seemed at a loss for words, and as angry and incredulous as if he'd just delt her a physical blow; Roy honestly wondered whether she had any right to look at him like that.

Finally, she set down her glass sharply, face tight, voice biting. "Oh, please. As if you really believe he's dead."

"I see no evidence to the contrary."

"Except for everything you and I have ever known about Edward Elric!"

Roy stared back at her, not reacting to the outburst. "Regardless..." he cleared his throat. "Fullmetal is gone and we have to accept that. We can't just go on living in a fairytale."

"'Gone,' but not dead. He'll come back," she told him stubbornly. "Their teacher agrees with me, I think. She has her doubts about why he left. She hasn't said anything-- not to me, at least-- but I know she doesn't believe the bullshit they're feeding us about him dying while on the run."

Roy did not have any reply to that, except to shake his head and mutter, "She's a fool, too."

"Really." She smirked, eyes alight in a way that seemed just a bit too knowing. "And how would you know that? Have you ever met her?"

"Once or twice," he said dismissively, standing up.

"Where are you going?"

For a moment he considered not telling her, or coming back with some jackass sort of comment that one might expect from Fullmetal... but then he stopped himself, knowing that she was, after all, just a hurt child and she had no reason to be civil to _him_, of all people.

"Getting a drink. I think I'll need one later on."

"Oh." A pause. "Grab me one too, while you're at it." Only when she looked up did she notice Roy's incredulous stare.

"What?"

"You're just a teenager!" he exclaimed, unable to hold back a sharp bark of laughter.

"What?! I'm eighteen!"

"Since when?"

"Since--" She checked her watch. "--about four hours and thirty-two minutes ago, I think."

Roy stared again, not really sure of what to say. Winry stared back; though what the girl-- young woman-- was expecting, he didn't know. Finally, she opened her mouth to say something, but Roy quickly interrupted with, "I'll make dinner tonight."

"Huh?"

"You shouldn't have to cook on your birthday," he muttered, not looking at her. "You shouldn't have to do _this_--" He made a wide, vague sort of gesture with his hand, as if trying to indicate not only the remnants of lunch on the table, but the whole cabin, the North, the whole damn week-- "...on your birthday. I'll make dinner. It'll be nice."

"Oh." Her frustration with him seemed to have dissipated a little. "You don't have to..."

"I want to."

A long, pregnant silence. Then-- softly, warmly, unexpectedly-- she whispered _thank you_ to his back.

Roy could only give a gruff nod to the opposite wall.

* * *

...Her birthday. And from what Roy had heard, her first one ever without Fullmetal and Alphonse by her side. Not to mention that Roy was hardly the best company right now for what should be a happy occasion...

He shook his head. Not his fault. She had come out here on her own.

Still, though... she may be an adult now, but barely. She might think she had come for his own good, but there were some things you just didn't understand at that age... and Roy absolutely refused to take away any more of her childhood. Maybe, years from now, she would come to understand his reasons for leaving...

Or at least, she would come to understand the reasons he let everyone else believe, which were basically right. He just couldn't take it anymore, that was all. He couldn't take it anymore. No one needed to know what "it" was.

Regardless, she needed to go home. She'd been away for far too long.

...Far, far too long...

She just had to get out of here, that was it. And not only for herself: if Roy was going to keep having these nightmares so frequently, then the last thing he needed was someone here to witness them. Not only would she worry, but knowing Winry, she'd pry for more information, and if she found out-- oh, if she ever found out what was really going on in his head... She'd tell people. She'd tell Riza, or Gracia, or someone... and they'd probably have him committed.

He wasn't crazy. He _wasn't_. He just couldn't take it anymore. That's all. He couldn't take it.

...He just needed to be alone for a while.

* * *

"It's acceptable, I suppose," Winry pronounced the dinner, "but I could probably do better if I had the recipe."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. I'm a goddess in the kitchen, as you may have noticed..." she took a sip of her wine, and smiled as an afterthought. "This is good, though. You have _some_ taste, I'll give you that... just don't let it go to your head."

Roy smirked in response, though his humor seemed rather short-lived. He sat still as they ate for a few moments, then, as if steeling himself, he took a deep breath and set down his fork. "Winry," he spoke, with a certain note of formality. He cleared his throat to make sure she was listening, then continued. "You have to go home."

The girl watched him for a moment, then swallowed her mouthful of food, likewise setting down her fork. "Is that so," she repeated, her voice cool. "Am I really such a burden? I don't think I've been disturbing your work at all, have I?"

"No," he admitted, not looking away. "No, you haven't done anything wrong."

"Why, then? Even you must like some human interaction every once in a while. And I _know_ you liked the food."

"Regardless--" he neither confirmed nor denied her statements-- "you really should be going home. Soon. Today. Now."

"Well, _I_ think I should stay here for a week, and I've already paid for my train ticket, which is not refundable. Direct trips to Central are only on the weekends, anyway." She said that as if it settled the matter. As if the simple facts that she wanted to stay and that a week was most convenient were the only things that really needed consideration-- Roy had to disagree.

He sighed, folding his hands authoritatively in front of him like he'd become so used to over the years. "Winry," he said again, as if speaking to a stubborn child, "you need to go home. You have a family and friends who worry about you, and staying up here for a week-- nearly alone and so close to the border of a hostile country-- is hardly the best idea. I garuntee that you have something to go back to, people who would give anything to know you're safe."

He knew these warnings well: Tim Marcoh had told him the same things when they'd first met in Ishbal, and he himself had said them once to his friend Armstrong, who at the time had been debating over whether or not to just get out and go home. Roy had even overheard a fellow officer passing on a similar message to Winry's parents, all those years ago.

Winry gave him a half-angry, half-sad sort of smile, and shook her head. "So do you, actually, if you'd just bother to look. You and I both have people we care about, desperate to see us again, yet here we are. I've told you my reasons; what are yours?"

"Winry, I just can't allow you to stay here."

"Why not?" Now she was becoming irritated... ah, the impatience of youth. "I'm not a burden-- in fact, people tell me I'm rather nice to have around. I haven't slowed down your work, or bothered you at all when you were busy. I told you when I came that I had to knock some sense into you, and clearly, I haven't done that yet, so I can't go."

"And I've listened to you, I've heard what you have to say--"

"Yeah, you heard me..." Now she was becoming angry. "But you sure as hell didn't _listen_ to me. You've just sat there and watched me, you haven't thought about it at all, you just try to... I dunno... _appease_ me or something until I shut up or get tired of it or... I don't even know."

"What do you want from me, then?"

"I want a goddamn chance, that's all!" Winry herself was painfully aware of how immature this outburst would look, and how she was not helping her case-- in his eyes, at least. But she couldn't stop, not when she'd thought and planned and overcome her own uncertainties and fears, only for him to sit there and pretend to pay attention, like it was just something he just had to put up with for a while. Like he was only humoring a child.

And that, perhaps, might be the biggest reason for which she wanted to hit him.

"You can't just dump me on my ass, not after I came all this way for _you_, and what I've got to say can honestly do you some good if you'll just bother to let me in--"

"Do me some good. Really." He looked right into her eyes, soldier's mask still in place. He would hear her out, she could tell, but not because he actually wanted to know why she'd come. He just felt he... what? Owed her, or something...?

Well then, if he wasn't interested, then she'd _make_ him interested. She had tried to be nice, poking at him with bits of the truth but not slamming him with the full force of it. She had tried to be gentle, easing into the hard conversations so that he wouldn't feel overwhelmed with the weight of her words. She had tried to get him to be more willing, telling him something here and something there but never enough to satisfy normal human curiosity. None of it had worked.

So, really, brute force was the only way to go.

"Yeah, Mustang, some good," she spat viciously. "I can tell you some shit that I bet you're just _dying_ to know but will never admit it... like why you have to go back, or what Edward Elric and I really think of you..."

His face tightened a little at the name, but Winry paid him no mind, too caught up in finally making him _break_. She felt the corners of her mouth turning up into a raw smirk, anger dissolving into a sick sort of victory.

"... Or maybe you'd like to know why your sister hasn't spoken to you in twenty years."

And suddenly-- finally-- Roy Mustang's infallible mask shattered, leaving behind only blank shock. His mouth dropped open slightly and his dark, narrow eyes were wide and staring, all pretense gone.

In that moment he was no different from Winry: he was young and hurt and scared as hell, and as much as she had tried to convince herself that she felt no remorse nor sympathy for this man, she couldn't help feeling a small pang of something like guilt as he fought in vain to keep his emotions under control.

Finally he spoke, in a low, disbelieving voice:

"How did you know about Izumi...?"

* * *

(A/N: :3 I hope you caught some of the weird little things I stuck in here... please tell me you noticed the fun details... and Izumi, ha ha... XD)


End file.
